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The day should be a beautiful one, yet you cannot enjoy it as you walk down the pebbled path to the large oak tree at the bottom of the Potter's estate. The sun’s light shines harshly, the only blemish on a clear blue expanse of sky. It makes everything appear too hard, too bright and constantly leaves you with the urge to shield your eyes from the blinding glow. If the Wizarding world truly was in mourning (as all the papers claimed) the light should have at least dimmed a little to respect the fallen hero, you think ruefully.

Fallen hero. You'd had to laugh at that, despite the melancholy of the situation. The second the tawny owl had rapped on your window the morning after… well after it happened, the first thought to cross your mind was here we go again. Bloody ridiculous, the lot of it. You'd barely scanned the first paragraph before you found yourself rolling your eyes and putting it to one side, unable to read any more. How could they still call a man at the ripe old age of one hundred and twenty one ‘The Boy Who Lived’? You’re pretty sure the reporter on the story had barely been a quarter of his age. No matter how many years passed they still felt the need to drag every detail of his life out for people to pore over in fascination every time his name reached the papers.

You sigh with exhaustion as you find some solace in the shade of the tall tree Harry and Ginny planted the evening they moved in to the estate. It had been Harry’s favourite place to come when he’d needed moments alone, and so it felt fitting to leave him here to finally rest, hidden from prying eyes. The bark is rough to your touch as you walk around the thick trunk, letting your fingers trace a line along it. You finally reach the grey marker that that tells the world your best mate lies below, but instead you turn and focus on the tree. Carved neatly into the wood are Harry and Ginny’s names at the top, followed by their three children, eight grandchildren and twenty-one great grandchildren. An ever growing list that you know he was proud of (and so are you).

This is what infuriated you most about the reporters and the biographers (you’d heard rumours for at least three books on his life already). Sure, he’d got more physical and mental scars at seventeen than most gained in a lifetime, yet somehow he’d slowly pieced himself together with the help of friends. Still, they all failed to grasp that if anyone had ever bothered to ask him about his life (which of course they never did), he would have told them about getting married to his sweetheart, or about his family and friends and what they were doing. Those had been the important things to him and you had been by his side for every moment of it, witness to it all. Best man at his wedding and godfather to his eldest child (you’d settled for being fun Uncle Ron to the rest of them). Some had called you his sidekick, but you know better. You were best friends.

You turn back to the stone you don’t really want to face and make your way slowly to the ground. Your movements are much stiffer these days and it takes you a while to get comfortable with your back pressed against the cool, hard headstone. A light breeze trickles through the air, pushing your once red hair back off your forehead. You’d once detested the thought of going grey; however when the streaks started to appear you embraced them, finding them to be a rather neat addition to your look. They gave you an air of sophistication and maturity that suited you. Harry had laughed and told you it would take more than a few grey hairs to make Hermione think you were mature. Of course he was right (but you hadn't told him that).

A sad smile creeps onto your face as you remember more moments like that. You still can’t quite believe that just a week ago that everything was so different; things had happened so suddenly. The healers hadn't been so surprised (insensitive gits). Hit with the killing curse twice and then an Auror on top of that they'd said he’s done well to make it to this age. True, his body went through more than most but that doesn’t mean you’d all been expecting him to die at any given second. It still brought no comfort to those closest to him that never got the chance to say goodbye (people like you).

You haven't cried.  The idea of it doesn't seem real enough to you yet. All your energy has gone into fighting against the Ministry's grand plans to honour Harry in a way you have no doubt he'd detest (fools). A huge ceremony had been arranged, along with a statue planned to grace the halls of the Ministry of Magic itself.  You had acted quickly with Ginny’s permission, organising a smaller, more private affair, with only family and close friends attending before they could stop you. It may have been rushed, but it was your last gift to Harry to bring him home to stay, to have some privacy at last. A scowl crosses your face as you think of the memorial service they’ve orchestrated as an alternative, something you know you won’t be able to stop.

You close your eyes and lean your head back against the stone. It feels strange that you haven’t spoken to him for so long. In over a hundred years of friendship, rare was the day when you didn’t see each other (if there even was one). You miss your best friend.

“Goodbye, mate.”


Hi guys!

So this was written for Gryffindor for the house cup 2014! It's for the 3rd prompt - Write about a friendship to remember that fraternal bonds can last an eternity. I hope you all enjoyed it! If you have any thoughts, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a review below.

A big thank you to Sian (nott theodore) and Nadia (MissesWeasley123) as they're both awesome and helped with this! You should totally read their work, it's awesome!

Oh, and GO GRYFFINDOR! Bravery in our blood, determination in our hearts!

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